


My Heart's Core

by Alexander_Writes



Category: Hamlet - All Media Types, Hamlet - Shakespeare
Genre: Australian Setting, Decision Making, Horatio POV, Horatio uses they/them pronouns, M/M, Nonbinary Character, Things will turn out better in this story than in canon, University AU, the closet, they/them pronouns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:35:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23213365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_Writes/pseuds/Alexander_Writes
Summary: Horatio has a very long day, and too many things to worry about. Hamlet and Ophelia try to help.University AU.
Relationships: Hamlet & Horatio, Horatio & Ophelia, Horatio/Hamlet
Comments: 12
Kudos: 38





	1. Not passion's slave

**Author's Note:**

> "Give me that man/That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him/In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,/As I do thee."  
> (Hamlet to Horatio)  
> \- Hamlet, Act III Scene II

“Good god, H, what _are_ you doing?” 

Horatio looks away from the mold on the shower floor. It’s early enough that Horatio is surprised to see Hamlet up at all. And yet, there he is, leaning against the doorframe, blinking down at Horatio. There are bags under his eyes. Horatio returns to scrubbing the floor, because otherwise Horatio will be seized by an uncontrollable urge to convince Hamlet to go back to sleep, to convince the man to eat, to look after himself. And that would make things much too obvious, enough that even Hamlet would realise, and Horatio doesn’t want that conversation.

“We have an inspection in a day,” Horatio says. “We need everything clean.”

Hamlet sighs, and Horatio doesn’t look up, not even when Hamlet pads away, instead focusing on the task at hand. The toilets, the stove and the fridge are already done. There are eleven other people in their apartment, and they will do some cleaning, but Horatio has class at ten, and a half hour commute to get there, and then work, and this is the only time to clean.

“Budge over,” Hamlet says. He’s back, still wearing his green satin pajamas, holding a rag.

“You don’t need to …” Horatio says quickly.

“Nonsense,” Hamlet says. “Can’t let you have all the fun, my man.”

Horatio’s smile tightens for a second, tiredness peeking through. “Even I don’t find this fun.”

“And yet you insist on getting up early to do it, instead of partying with me.” Hamlet says, without any bite. He runs a hand through his auburn hair and scowls when he gets soap in it. “You should have come last night. Rosencrantz got absolutely shitfaced. It was great.”

“I have assignments. And as much as I regret missing out on seeing R drunk, they were more important.” Horatio says.

Hamlet pouts.

Horatio doesn’t go along with Hamlet to the numerous nightclubs in the city for any conventional reasons. It’s free entry, and transport is affordable, schedules changeable. But Hamlet has the propensity to remove his shirt after a set number of drinks, and he will dance his weirdly coordinated jigs wearing only his black jeans, and Horatio does not wish to be subjected to that again.

After they have scrubbed the floor they make breakfast together. They make eggs and fry up some mushrooms and capsicum, with toast. Horatio is dying for some bacon, but Hamlet is a vegetarian, and while his motive for his diet has never been clear (when Laertes asked him about it Hamlet responded with a verbose exposition on life and death), Horatio always feels uncomfortable eating meat in front of him.

Hamlet is looking at Horatio in that peculiar way of his. “If you wanted, we could go out just ourselves some night, if Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are the issue. I find them tiresome myself sometimes, too.”

Horatio frowns. “Can we talk about this later? I don’t have my schedule and the bus is leaving soon.”

“All right,” Hamlet says, resigned. “Have a good day.”

“You too,” Horatio says, smiles, and leaves.

“Hide me,” Ophelia says, which is unusual because she usually starts conversations with ‘hello’.

Horatio looks up from a book on the Aesthetics movement. Ophelia looks determined, even as she flattens herself against the bookshelf and lowers her voice. There are two people she could be hiding from. Horatio sympathises, and gestures towards the nook on the other side of the table. They are surrounded by shelves on all sides, and if Ophelia sits on the carpet she would be practically hidden from view. She darts under the table, so when her father passes he only sees Horatio, hard at study.

“Horatio,” says Polonius. “Have you seen Ophelia?”

“No, sorry,” Horatio says.

“Well, if she passes, please tell her I’m looking for her. There’s something we need to discuss, you know, as family. Send her along, won’t you?”

“Of course,” Horatio nods, and waits until Polonius departs before sitting down on the carpet across from Ophelia. “What’s going on?”

“Hamlet sent me fucking flowers.” Ophelia says.

“Oh.” Horatio says, and frowns. “And your father wants a meeting about that?”

Ophelia removes her hair tie and combs her hair with fingers as she speaks. Her hands are splotchy, multicoloured from the pens she uses to draw. She’s unusually colourful today, with flowery shoes and bright red overalls.

“Father wants to talk to me about love, and relationships, as is his prerogative. He still doesn’t believe me when I tell him I was already in two relationships. Apparently bisexuality wasn’t a thing when he was young, so the fact that they were women complicates things.”

Horatio grimaces and pats Ophelia’s shoulder gingerly, so that she laughs. Placing the book on the table, Horatio looks at Ophelia’s strained eyes.

“Why did Hamlet send you flowers?”

“Oh. We were looking at flower languages in English Lit, so I think he was just stirring the pot.”

Horatio thinks about it, thinks about Ophelia and Hamlet together. The thought feels cold, uncomfortable, almost bitter.

“Hey,” Ophelia says. “It’s alright, Hamlet wouldn’t have done it if he’d known my father would have acted like this. Even so, I’m ripping him a new one when I see him next.”

Ophelia, when angry, is a force of nature. She will cut her friends – and enemies - down easily, if they step over the line. Horatio is perhaps the only one in their disjointed friend circle that she has not yet roused upon, which is because, apparently, Horatio is just ‘so nice’.

“Anyway,” Ophelia continues, “How are you going?”

Horatio thinks on this question longer than one usually would. There’s a fatigue hovering, a fatigue caused by stress and work and study and a feeling of quiet isolation that Horatio wants to ignore.

“Yes.” Horatio says. “I am most certainly going.”

Ophelia screws her nose in response, and Horatio sighs deeply.

“Aight,” Ophelia says, and grabs Horatio’s hand. “We’re going outside, into the sun, and you are going to talk, and I’m buying you coffee.”

“I don’t need coffee.” Horatio protests, but allows Ophelia to lead the way out of the university library. They’re in the center of the university, so there are coffee shops all around, and the sun is blazing.

Their university is always green, despite the drought, and ahead of them the willows sway, leaves trailing like falling water. Their destination is the quaint looking café named Communal Hedgehog, and before Horatio knows it the two of them are at the counter. A middle-aged woman smiles at both of them, face creased from years of friendliness. She looks at Horatio first.

“What would you like, young man?”

Horatio freezes, and the moment stretches out like a pained eternity.

Ophelia orders for the both of them. “Two flat whites please, small.”

The woman nods, “under what name?”

“Ophelia.”

“It’ll be five minutes.”

Ophelia directs Horatio to a secluded corner. When they are seated she puts on a serious look, her ‘mothering’ expression.

“What’s up?”

“… I had bugger all sleep and I have exams next week and I keep overthinking stuff.” Horatio admits. “I could barely read that book in the library; my thoughts were whirring so much.”

Ophelia nods. She has known Horatio long enough that they have a system for this, she can tell when it’s time for her to talk until Horatio feels better, and when it’s time for them to take a walk, and when it’s time for her to listen.

“What are you thinking of?”

“Work. And another thing.”

“Ah. What’s the other thing?”

“I need to make a decision, I’ll tell you when I do.”

Ophelia nods. “You can tell me anything, you know? I’m here for you.”

Horatio nods jaggedly, swallows heavily. For a moment everything weighs too much, silence and conversation. Ophelia would notice the lie in Horatio’s posture, the lie in the response.

“Of course.” Horatio says. “I know that.”

“Ophelia texted me,” Hamlet says when Horatio walks into their apartment at 9:15PM.

“Ordinary people say hello.”

“Hello.” Hamlet says. “Ophelia texted me.”

“Did she pull you up about the flowers?”

Hamlet’s smile dims. He looks exactly nineteen years old then, the weight of his arrogance and confidence suddenly gone. “She didn’t like them?”

“I have no idea,” Horatio says, dumping the bag of groceries on the kitchen table. “But Polonius saw it. For your sake I hope there wasn’t genuine sentiment behind them, because Ophelia thought you were taking the piss.”

“Oh,” Hamlet says, and Horatio’s stomach drops, because Hamlet’s tone is not that of a practical joker at all.

“Anyway,” Horatio says. “Why did she text you?”

“She said you weren’t doing so well.” Hamlet says. “Talk to me about it?”

“It’s just been a busy week, Hamlet. Nothing for you to be concerned about.” Horatio begins to unpack the vegetables and legumes, ordering them in the pantry.

“But something’s been worrying you for a while.”

Horatio’s eyes close, open again after a moment. “If you had to work, Hamlet, you would know that it is a constant worry.”

Hamlet pauses. “You’re angry with me. Why?”

“Not angry, just tired.”

Horatio sighs, then flinches when Hamlet’s arms wrap around Horatio’s waist. It’s a balancing act, holding a kilo bag of potatoes at the same time, but Horatio leans against Hamlet’s chest for a long moment, eyes closed.

“Hey,” Hamlet says. “It’s alright. I’ll make dinner, and put this stuff away. Sit down, and tell me about your university adventures.”

“All right,” Horatio says, and exhales, eyes closed. “That sounds great.”

Hamlet directs Horatio to a chair, and he starts to cook. Outside the moon is visible, glowing behind the darkened leaves of the wattle outside their dorm. When Hamlet glances behind him, Horatio's head is placed in shaking hands. Neither of them say anything, at all.


	2. The readiness is all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There is special providence in the fall of a sparrow. If it be now, 'tis not to come; if it be not to come, it will be now; if it be not now, yet it will come: the readiness is all."
> 
> \- Hamlet to Horatio, Act Five Scene Two
> 
> It's the summer holidays, both Hamlet and Horatio have things on their mind. Horatio makes a decision.

There are times when Horatio wishes that things were as easy as others made them out to be. Looking at Hamlet at the kitchen table studying, or in the park laughing at something Rosencrantz said, or with his face lit by the moon on the balcony of their accommodation, Horatio makes to speak, stops. Sometimes Hamlet catches it, presses, gets nowhere. Sometimes he doesn’t.

The curious thing about the whole situation is that Horatio knows that Hamlet will take it well. Hamlet has many faces, but under all that there is a man who cares deeply for his friends. Surely, when Horatio does speak, Hamlet won’t turn away. And yet, silence remains the theme of Horatio’s days.

Ophelia calls irregularly. The holidays caught them all by surprise, and she is on a trip with her father and brother over on the coast. Ophelia was partially coerced into attending. There’s a part of her that still wants to be the perfect daughter for her widowed father. When she does call she complains about something stupid and condescending that her brother said, about the lectures Polonius gave her on this or that, or talks about the girls she has met. There’s a gay bar nearby, and she has gone dancing several times. From what Horatio can garner, Ophelia’s days are an equal mix of annoyance and fun. Horatio wishes her the best.

Neither Horatio nor Hamlet return home for the long summer. Their reasons are different. Hamlet had loved his father and stills loves his mother dearly, but since her second wedding after Hamlet Senior’s death things had become strained. Horatio is quietly happy that Hamlet had left that all behind, because now the man smiles and laughs and is sloughing that old melancholy away, bit by careful bit. Their last year of High School had been a thing of nightmares, for Hamlet and Horatio both.

In Horatio’s case family has always been something to escape. The town Horatio comes from is small, conservative and cramped. Horatio had been taught things that now ring false and hollow. The ideas were ones that stuck, that still torment now, ideas about the acceptable ways to live and love and be. Hamlet knows some of this, but not all. The things Horatio had let slip are enough that Hamlet makes excuses for Horatio to stay with him every holiday, whether Hamlet is at the university accommodation or at his family’s holiday house ten hours south.

Days without university mean days without stress. They mean luxurious days waking without alarms, frying pancakes at eleven for breakfast. They make coffee for each other and nights are spent blaring an eclectic combination of their favourite music. Holidays with Hamlet are lined with velvet and gold.

Horatio is obligated by family expectations and by younger siblings to visit home at least once every four months or so. Instead, Horatio calls Jesse and Amelia every two days, sends photos in messages and videos by Facebook. They are reproachful, but for once Horatio is unapologetic. The two younger ones are always welcome wherever Horatio is, but Horatio needs space. They do not understand.

One day, after a night spent reading poetry while tipsy, Hamlet doesn’t get up. Horatio does. This results in three hours of time spent in thought, and Horatio musters up some shaky courage. It's 11AM and Hamlet’s door is ajar. In the doorway Hamlet's room looks dark and unappealing. Horatio knocks, palms sweaty.

"Guildenstern if that's you I swear ..."

"Hamlet, it's me."

"Oh."

In two minutes the light is on and Hamlet is swaying in the doorway. The rings under his eyes are darker than yesterday, the smile from last night entirely gone. Horatio hugs him instantly, and the man slumps into the embrace. There is an old, familiar look in Hamlet’s eyes. It's a quiet surprise that it is back.

“What’s wrong?”

“Mother is coming up here to see me for Christmas.” Hamlet says. “She’s bringing _him._ ”

Horatio’s courage-fueled plan of action goes out the window. “Ah.”

“Yeah,” Hamlet says. “Yeah.”

“How long will they be here for?”

“At least a week, maybe two. They’re looking at an Air BNB place in the CBD. They’ll probably be here by the twenty-first.”

“We have two weeks, then,” Horatio says.

“I know.” Hamlet says. “But I don’t want to see them, Horatio. I don’t.”

“Why don’t you just tell them this?” Horatio says after a moment. “Your mother won’t come then.”

Hamlet looks at Horatio, head tilted. His voice roughens. “Just because you don’t have family relationships to maintain doesn’t mean I want to fuck mine up more.”

Horatio steps back. Hamlet’s eyes flick to the ground.

“I’m going to make breakfast,” Horatio says, and leaves.

Hamlet emerges from his lair when Horatio is eating at the kitchen table. Out the window a number of magpies are congregating on the grass. A eucalyptus tilts in the meagre wind. It’s a sunny day, too hot, too dry. Horatio is eating cake because it’s the holidays.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Hamlet says.

Horatio shrugs. “Forget it.”

“No,” Hamlet says. “I shouldn’t have talked about your family like that. I …”

“Can we not keep talking about this?” Horatio asks. “I’m sorry, you’re sorry, the world is sorry. Please let’s not talk about my family.”

“… All right,” Hamlet says, a little forlorn. The conversations stills, tilts, reasserts itself.

“I didn’t mean that you should say outright that you don’t want to see them, not necessarily,” Horatio says. “Simply that you could _diplomatically_ explain why you want space. ... My parents don’t listen to me, but your mother tries with you … sometimes.”

“I don’t think I want to have that conversation,” Hamlet says, sitting down. He’s still in pajamas. “And you know how manipulative my uncle gets - he was on the call too. I sort of collapsed under their Christmas enthusiasm, like a flan.”

“Do flans collapse?”

“When they’re Hamlet-shaped they do,” Hamlet says dully.

“Well,” Horatio says. “Just make sure they know you’re busy these holidays. You’ll put them in your very crammed schedule, but you won’t see them as much as you’d like, a great pity.”

Hamlet nods solemnly. “Oh, don’t worry, I told them that I’m busy babysitting you.”

“What, by plying me with alcohol?” Horatio laughs. “You did not tell them that.”

“I absolutely did. Mother scoffed at me.”

“You are the most dishonest man I have ever met,” Horatio says, still laughing.

“And you are the most honest man I have ever met,” Hamlet says, voice absent of mirth, utterly genuine.

Horatio winces. The crows caw outside. Life continues past this blip, but it’s a moment Horatio will remember.

“Oh God, now I’m thinking of you as a paid baby-sitter.”

“I would be a marvellous nanny,” Hamlet says primly. “I’d introduce the wee child to Sassoon before he is five.”

“And traumatise the kid for life,” Horatio says, standing and taking the plate to the sink. “Two birds with one stone.”

“Exactly.” Hamlet says, with great satisfaction.

Horatio stands at the sink, and is caught by a grip of rash emotion. Buoyed up by this sudden feeling, Horatio turns on the water, scrubs the plate, and speaks loudly.

“I want people to use they/them pronouns for me now,” Horatio says, to the running tap.

Hamlet swivels, the chair scrapes the ground. Horatio is suddenly as still as the half-destroyed sculptures in the Classics Museum. Their senses heighten and everything in that moment is clear, underscored by the beating of their heart.

“This is what you’ve been trying to tell me, isn’t it?” Hamlet asks, musingly.

Horatio nods. Their hands are shaking, just a little.

“And you want me to use them for you everywhere?” Hamlet asks, voice careful. “That’s how I introduce you? ‘This is my best friend Horatio, they are a right cad?’”

“Yes.” Horatio says, exhales and turns. Hamlet is mouthing the new pronouns to himself. In that moment Horatio knows that it will all be alright.

“I can do that,” Hamlet says, eyes wide in earnestness. “I can absolutely do that.”

“Thank you,” Horatio says, and to their horror they start to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Several things I thought I'd clarify: CBD means Central Business District, it's basically the city centre, and Sassoon of course refers to the poet Seigfried Sassoon.


	3. Let us go in together

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, gentlemen,/ With all my love I do commend me to you,/ And what so poor a man as Hamlet is/ May do t'express his love and friending to you,/ God willing shall not lack. Let us go in together..."
> 
> \- Act I Scene V (Hamlet to Horatio, Marcellus)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please be aware that misgendering and other less positive aspects of coming out are referenced throughout this chapter. It's not very heavy, but the things mentioned could potentially discomfort people. Check the notes below if this could be an issue for you.

Changing pronouns is not like changing clothes. Indeed, Horatio had expected as much. It had been one of the reasons behind their reluctance to broach the subject. The clothes simile does not work, on several fronts. For one thing, though Horatio finds a similar comfort in the use of ‘they/them’ as they might in a particularly gorgeous shirt, the comfort is deeper, more profound. They experience flashes of pure happiness when their pronouns are correctly used, especially at the start. On the other hand, clothing simply holds less weight than pronouns do. If Horatio corrects someone on their pronouns – which they do very rarely – they are unlikely to receive swift acceptance and some sort of behavioural change. More positive responses consist of rambling apologies, uncomfortable for both parties, but ultimately the correct pronouns are used. However, awkward silences, or even hostility, may also result. Oftentimes, out of politeness and self-preservation, Horatio makes no corrections at all. This is especially true within their workplace, and so that place gets an addition to the list of reasons Horatio detests it so.

Horatio finds changing their pronouns to be jarring and anxious and scary, but with time it becomes easier, until Horatio can breathe. At least Hamlet and Ophelia pick it up quickly, rarely slipping up. Suddenly, Horatio is no longer distancing themself in conversations with their closest friends. They no longer flinch during casual chats. This alone makes it worthwhile.

One afternoon, right after Horatio has trudged home and thrown themself onto their bed with intent to stay there, Hamlet rushes into the room. The man is frantic, but Horatio has had a full eight hours of yelling co-workers and of elderly women calling them ‘boy’ over the shop counter. To put it simply, Horatio is distracted by their novel, and wishes to stay that way.

“Put down Wodehouse, I need to talk to you.”

Horatio doesn’t respond. They turn another page and ignore their friend. They’re lying flat on their stomach, chin propped up on a pillow, novel leant against the wall. It’s a position that has been perfected over the years.

“I need you to come out to dinner with me.”

Horatio prays for patience for a moment. Hamlet can’t be asking them on a date – the man is comfortably heterosexual. It’s something like a backhanded slap, the way Hamlet is so oblivious in how he acts sometimes. Horatio’s eyes flicker away from the novel to Hamlet. He’s wearing black formal clothes.

“Are you in mourning?” Horatio asks with a frown.

“I’m mourning the company I’m expected to keep,” Hamlet says.

Horatio glares. “You’re the one who barged in here.”

“What – no! Why would I be referring to you?”

“I’m not in the mood for your,” Horatio pauses, trying to find the word. It’s not Hamlet’s fault that their day has been bad. They do not want to be too hurtful. “… antics.”

“My _antic_ disposition is dedicated to mother dearest and my darling uncle only, don’t worry.”

“You’re speaking like a bad novel,” Horatio says, looking back at the chapter. They’ve lost their place, something else to thank Hamlet for, they suppose.

“You’re in a great mood, aren’t you? Anyway, I need you to come with me to dinner to protect me from my mother and uncle-step-father. If I go alone, I might do something drastic, like fake a hallucination or stab a waitress.”

“Hamlet, I really just wanted to relax this afternoon,” Horatio says quietly. “I’m not even invited. Can’t you deal with it yourself, just this once?”

“Now that’s where you’re wrong, you genius of a … person. Mother invited you specifically. They’re paying.”

Horatio drops their head into their book, and groans.

“Please, Horatio. You’re my best friend. Look, I’ll owe you. I can bake you a cake, or write you a play, or something.”

“You really want me there?”

“Of course! You’re the only one who’ll make it bearable.”

“Alright. But I want you know that this decision was made solely out of pity.”

“All the best friendships are based on one pitying the other.” Hamlet is so clearly delighted that his sarcasm falls flat. “Thank you, dearest friend.”

“I expect a cake and a poem,” Horatio says, ignoring the softness they feel at Hamlet’s endearments.

“A poem was not on offer, but I shall write you one anyway,” Hamlet says solemnly. “Don’t look so down! We’re going to the Indian restaurant you love.”

Horatio would refuse to let Hamlet’s family pay for them, but they genuinely could not afford it. For once, they push their pride aside, and decide not to look a gift horse in the mouth, as it were. Is that the phrase? Is that something people say? Horatio is suddenly not too sure. They stop themself from going down the Trojan Horse rabbit hole with some difficulty. They seem to be always so tired, these days.

Hamlet is waiting for a response.

“Alright, I’ll get ready.” Horatio says.

“Good person yourself,” Hamlet says, and he bounds out the room with the same speed as he had entered.

Horatio is not one to judge others’ decisions or relationships easily. They made a resolution some time ago to avoid judgement of others’ actions, as long as they caused no harm. Gertrude’s hasty marriage to Hamlet’s uncle is one of the few exceptions to this rule. Even had it not harmed Hamlet so, the action itself makes Horatio deeply uneasy. Claudius looks a little too similar to Hamlet Senior for it not to feel like some sort of mockery of the dead. It is lucky that Horatio is skilled at holding their tongue. Ophelia has taken to avoiding the couple altogether, though perhaps that is simply because Claudius is a man who encroaches others’ space too easily. He’s a person accustomed to hugging women and shaking men’s hands, and is either too stupid or too arrogant to notice when it makes the women in his company uncomfortable.

Claudius and Gertrude are already on the balcony of the restaurant. The restaurant had once been an old townhouse, and the architecture is elegant and pleasing, and the food always delicious. Hamlet always enjoys the novelty of having a range of vegetarian food.

The two friends had arrived by car, Hamlet having driven. Upon alighting on the footpath, Hamlet grasps Horatio’s hand tightly. Horatio takes a split second to consider shaking him off, before they see the tightness of Hamlet’s face. Then, they make no protest at all.

Gertrude smiles brightly when she sees them. She’s as overdressed as always, with her dark hair in a bun and her jacket some sort of fur. When she stands, Horatio notices her dress; it’s purple velvet. Horatio thinks she wore that colour at her second wedding. Claudius remains seated. His red hair is fading into grey now, eyes still that sharp green. Hamlet gasps at seeing the two of them, and Horatio squeezes his hand.

“Darling!” Gertrude says.

“Mother,” Hamlet says, giving her the expected hug.

“Hullo Horatio,” Gertrude says. “I’m so glad you came.”

“Thanks for inviting me,” Horatio says mildly, watching as Hamlet is released to nod at his uncle-step-father, hands in pockets. “I have to admit I was surprised at the invitation.”

“Whatever do you mean, dear? How could I not invite you?” She leans forward, as to quietly tell Horatio a secret. “I’m so happy you two finally got together.”

Horatio stills. “Hamlet said we were together?”

“Oh, is it supposed to be a secret?” Gertrude says, stepping away. To her credit she seems genuinely concerned. “Don’t worry, he didn’t _tell_ me, per se. I’m just using mother’s intuition.”

“I think you must have misunderstood,” Horatio says. “We’re just friends.”

“… Well, friends are welcome too!” Gertrude says with a laugh and a pat on Horatio’s shoulder.

Horatio hurries over to sit with Hamlet. The man takes Horatio’s hand immediately. Horatio shakes it off, and Hamlet glances at them, wide eyed. Claudius is talking about business or money or meetings, something dull. Horatio doesn’t attempt to engage. They’re here for Hamlet, they are not morally obligated to be polite. They pick up a menu, flick through it to peruse the curries. They’re going to get themself a chicken madras; the other three are all vegetarian, so the meal will be all for Horatio.

They all order, and the three family members talk. Horatio keeps quiet, unless Hamlet is getting uncomfortable under the scrutiny, in which case they’ll step in. It is only when they have started eating that Claudius speaks to Horatio.

“So, Horatio, you seem like a smart lad. What are you studying at university?”

To Horatio’s credit, their flinch is surreptitious. Hamlet notices it, because he has become adept at recognising it since Horatio came out. Hamlet goes to say something, and Horatio kicks him. These people are not ones who would respond favourably to they/them pronouns.

“I’m majoring in English Literature – like Hamlet - and Gender Studies,” Horatio says with a smile.

“Ah. How … interesting. Gertrude, is the naan good?”

“It’s delicious. Would you like to try some, darling?”

“I’m sorry,” Horatio interrupts. “Where are the restrooms?”

Gertrude points, and Horatio speeds out of there. They walk through the indoor part of the restaurant, into the corridor that leads to the kitchen and toilets. It’s been so long since Horatio has been to a restaurant in the city, and so it hits them worse than usual when they see the three different doors. At university there’s always some sort of gender-neutral option, and they freeze. They only want to wash their face and take a moment, instead, they just lean against the wall outside the bathroom entrances, and breathe. They close their eyes and let themself feel their emotions for the moment. Sometimes they won’t react badly at all, when someone takes them for a man, but this is not one of those times.

“Hey.” Hamlet says.

Horatio’s head turns, and they almost bang it against the wall. Hamlet’s hands are in his pockets. He looks sheepish.

“You looked upset. You alright?”

“I’m fine.” Horatio says.

Hamlet leans beside them, against the wall. There’s a decent amount of space between them.

“I’m sorry, if I made you uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable?” Horatio says, frowning.

“Holding your hand.”

“Ah – no, it’s fine. It’s just that Gertrude thought we were dating, and I didn’t want to strengthen her suspicions.”

“Why would it matter, if my mother thought we were together?”

“Because we’re not. That’s why it matters.” Horatio says, incredulous.

Hamlet nods slowly. Horatio looks at him, with his mussed auburn hair, his darting green eyes.

“What’s wrong? Apart from the obvious.” Horatio says.

“If you – if you wanted it to be true, it can be. It’s up to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“If you want to date, that is. It’s fine if you don’t. No problem.” Hamlet is babbling.

“But you’re straight.” Horatio says, staring.

“I’m _bi_ ,” Hamlet says, offended.

“What about Ophelia?”

“I don’t pursue people who are clearly uninterested,” Hamlet says. Then, quieter. “Anyway, I’ve liked you longer than I have her.”

“Alright,” Horatio says, after a moment.

Hamlet’s smile is wide and somewhat incredulous. “Really?”

“Yeah,” Horatio says, swallowing. “I’d like to try dating you.”

Hamlet nods slowly, then grins again. “May I hug you?”

Horatio embraces him tightly, and the weight on their mind lessens until it is almost not there. Hamlet leans away after a moment. Horatio is glad he doesn’t ask to kiss them. They feel too anxious for that right now.

“Give me a second, I’ll give our excuses to the family.”

“What?”

“No point you staying around being miserable and misgendered,” Hamlet says. “I’ll tell them my anxiety’s playing up. They hate it when I talk about that.”

“Alright,” Horatio says quietly. “I’ll wait for you at the steps.”

“Alright,” Hamlet says, hurrying away.

Horatio takes a moment to smile. They put their hands in their jean pockets, and step out of the restaurant and down the steps, out of Hamlet’s family’s view. The moon is full, up above, and the street is bright with streetlamps and shop signs. They wait for Hamlet to join them, and they walk away together, into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's the end of this little story. I would absolutely love to hear your feedback (even if it's critical)!
> 
> Note: Horatio is misgendered by people who don't know their proper pronouns. References are made to people responding negatively/unhelpfully to them coming out, and Horatio remains partially in the closet in some aspects of their life. 
> 
> I have several things to say about the topics I have covered here. I believe that representation is really important, and I hope I have not made any blunders in my story, but if there's any issue with the way things are presented feel free to let me know. For the sake of transparency (though this will probably be obvious already), the experiences Horatio has in regards to gender and 'they/them' pronouns are heavily - almost 100%, with some minor changes - based on my own experience. My experience is only representative of me - there are people who will have many other experiences that differ entirely from mine.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, I'd love any feedback you feel like giving. Also, if you think I misrepresented anything, please let me know.


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